


Ain't She Sweet

by VictoryRoad



Series: The Holiday Sessions [1]
Category: Bunheads
Genre: F/F, Near Future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 03:49:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6595357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoryRoad/pseuds/VictoryRoad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short Bunheads vignette, originally written for a project where I wrote 1000 words on random prompts from friends.<br/>She asked for Bunheads fan-fiction, so I wrote my ideal ending.<br/>http://jondarthur.tumblr.com/holidaysessions</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't She Sweet

“Boo, come on, we’re going to be late.” Sasha called back behind her, in the vague direction of the bathroom. She wasn’t expecting an answer, but when even a muffled cry of despair failed to respond, she knew that something wasn’t right. Her frame leaning gently against the door, she shook her head and gave up, laughing far more than she should.

“Don’t,” Boo reprimanded, her face a makeup-strewn mess that even a loving hand couldn’t fix. “I’ve been so stressed that I haven’t put anything more than foundation on in months.”

“It’s supposed to be like riding a bike,” Sasha quipped, her lips curling into a smirk. “You’re not meant to rub your face into the pavement.” What came next was a familiar routine, adapted for a very different purpose. Sasha placed one hand at the back of Bettina’s neck to steady her, and began to fix the mistake. Their eyes kept locking, a mechanical draw borne of familiarity. This usually happened very differently. Oh well, _never mind._

“Do you think they’ll get it?” Boo asked, as though Sasha hadn’t spent more time thinking about it than she cared to admit. It had been years – Boo was six months away from finishing her degree, Sasha was already splitting study and touring… That last summer with Michelle had been the end of an era. Madam Fanny had much grander plans than girls who were picking colleges. The drift happened so quickly that when anyone noticed, it was too late. Boys, derby, auditions, exams. A whole new world, and they’d been torn apart by nothing more than the wind.

“What’s there to get?” She asked, her face pressing in closer. There was a faint smell of fresh makeup - that imperceptible tinge that becomes almost unrecognisable after years of practice. A fresh colour flooded Boo’s cheeks. “Haven’t you heard about dearest Melanie?”

“I don’t mean this. I mean…” Boo pulled away slightly, gesturing around her. “Well, I mean, _us._ ” Sasha laughed her normal laugh, and the colour in Boo’s cheeks turned warmer, and the terror of revelation faded away gently until they had arrived at their destination. Sasha strode confidently onwards, a red streak of fashion where a more muted black trail of Boo followed.

“Boo, oh my gooooood, you look _amazing!_ ” Came the immediate response. No one ever really pointed out that Sasha looked great - she always looked great - but Ginny knew who needed the encouragement most. A certain rise in Bettina’s shoulders suggested that she maybe, just maybe, didn’t need it at all.

“Ginny, Hi!” She said, handing over a tightly-wrapped present in the process. Ginny’s eyes widened for a moment, before ushering them both in. “Are we the first here?”

“No, no, Mel and Cozette are here too.” Ginny’s matter-of-fact tone caused a slight grating underscored by Sasha’s “Still?” expression. A firm hand gripped hers as if to encourage politeness.

In the main room, the gathered group traded presents and personal histories. The house, it turned out, was Ginny’s. Real estate had called to her, and though she still planned to go to College, her foundation was much sounder now. Mel, her arms entwined with Cozette’s, recounted the tale of their first international tour - scraped together and paid for with each passing show, but still, the band played on. She credits Cozette with the idea, but a dirty joke about hearing the other sing cuts off the truth of it.

“So how did uh…” Ginny’s arms gesture wildly, “This? What’s all… I mean… I’m not confused, exactly…”

“Dumb luck.” Boo rolled her eyes. “The good kind, though.” She smiled, and took Sasha’s hand in her own, squeezing gently. “Turns out that when you go to school nearby, you might eventually run into each other. Years later and a whole new set of words and understandings… Things eventually fit. They might not have fit before, but they do now.”

There is a long and winding trail that runs through Paradise - out from the fields and farms, past the tourist shops and Mom-and-Pops, through the suburbs and the private roads, down to the beach that most forget is there - is _still_ there, will always _be_ there. Two women walk this road often, chatting, debriefing, soaking in the town. There is a lot to take in. They window-watch, and they collect trinkets, and the world turns on around their bustling conversation. Any old shadow can linger, can watch, and can walk the same path as always.

“Nothing really changes, does it Fanny?” Michelle asked, though the question did not beg an answer. Instead the pair stood on the street and gazed through a window, watching breathlessly as the figures inside shared an effortless moment of joy.

“I don’t know,” Fanny responded musingly, “I think the pairings are unexpected. I was always modern, but it didn’t stick for me.” Michelle sighed, not forlorn or aching, but content.

“Young love is always the same, you know? Even when you don’t think it will be. It always looks the same, it always feels the same, and it always grips the same. Total, aching, pure.” She pulled the hair from her eyes and let her gaze unfix, no longer watching anything in particular. “It’s easy to spot when you know, but it’s so different to what you feel after all those years of it… It doesn’t really match the stories. No one’s really able to put it into words. It’s a feeling you get and never have again, and you can never quite explain what it meant to have it in the first place. It’s kind of a dance that you just happen to see. Some folks just have rhythm.”

“Ever the poet, Michelle.” Fanny laughed to herself, but Michelle appreciated the camaraderie of it.

“Always, Fanny.” They turned to the empty street and continued their long journey home. “Always.”

“Did you get Cats?”

“No.”

“Everybody gets Cats.” Indignant, but fair-weathered. Michelle rolls her eyes, a playful nudge shifting through her shoulders.

“I wish." 


End file.
